Page 46 of Bellini Bound
“Allison,” Enzo sighed my name, looking away.
Realizing we were right back to square one was the final straw, and a sob bubbled up from my chest before I could stop it.
A pained expression flickered across my husband’s features, eyes snapping up at the sound, and he took a half-step toward me before thinking better of it, freezing in place. “The house is yours. I’m only here to ensure your safety, and I promise to stay out of your way.”
“Safety.” I barked out a hollow laugh at the irony.
I wouldn’t need his “protection” if I hadn’t been forced to marry him in the first place.
“Fine,” I clipped out, turning on my heel.
“Didn’t you come in here for breakfast?” he called out to my back.
“Not hungry.”
“Fuck. Here we go again.”
The past few weeks had been lonely in this gigantic house, but at least they’d been peaceful.
Truth be told, I didn’t know if Enzo and I could co-exist. But just like with everything lately, I wasn’t being given much of a choice.
We were back to living under the same roof, for better or worse.
“What smells so good?”
My hand froze, curled around the handle of a knife, at that voice.
I’d taken the rest of the day yesterday to pout over the bombshell Enzo dropped that threatened to destroy this careful balance we’d found living separate lives. After a good night’s sleep—something that didn’t come easy for me these days—I decided to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.
Besides, his house was huge. The two of us could be locked inside for months and probably never cross paths.
Clearly, that had been wishful thinking, because here I was, less than forty-eight hours later, in the middle of cooking dinner for one, when he sauntered into the kitchen.
Abandoning the onions I was dicing, I stirred the beef as it browned on the stove. Sure, the pan was hot, but if he did what he did best—muddy my mind by revealing his many stacks of muscles—at least I wouldn’t lose a hand.
“Shepherd’s pie.”
There was a beat of hesitation. “That’s not Italian.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “It’s Scottish.”
“Scottish.” The wrinkling of his nose was audible. “AreyouScottish?”
Spinning around, I propped one hand on my hip. “As a matter of fact, I am. Do you have a problem with that?”
Hazel eyes lifted from the frying pan to lock on my face. “Uh, no. It’s just that Summer—” His words cut off abruptly as he shook his head and turned to leave the room. “You know what, never mind.”
At the sight of his retreating form, I blurted, “Would you like to stay? There’s enough for both of us.”
Enzo stopped dead in his tracks, still facing in the other direction, and I inwardly groaned.
Oh my God. Did I seriously just invite him to join me for dinner? Like we were a normal married couple?
The count was out on whether I’d lost my damn mind.
A curt, “Enjoy your dinner, Allison,” preceded the sound of his retreating footsteps down the hallway.
I sagged against the counter, burying my face in my hands. What did I think was going to happen? That, after everything that had happened to this point, we would sit down like civilized people to share a meal? Perhaps crack open the door that led to friendship? Was I really that delusional?
